PR 

4783 
135 
1908 


38 
w. 


IN    HOSPI 


Mdccccviii 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  HOSPITAL 


IN  HOSPITAL  BY  WILLIAM 
ERNEST  HENLEY 


PORTLAND  MAINE 

THOMAS    B    MOSHER 

MDCCCCVIII 


FIRST    EDITION,  OCTOBER,     I903 

SECOND   EDITION,  OCTOBER,    1908 


CONTENTS 


I'AI.E 


\/   I 

ENTER  PATIENT  . 

3 

II 

WAITING        .... 

4 

III 

INTERIOR        .... 

5 

j  iv 

BEFORE             .... 

6 

V 

OPERATION    .... 

7 

VI 

AFTER    

9 

VII 

VIGIL 

10 

VIII 

STAFF-NURSE  :  OLD  STYLE  . 

12 

IX 

LADY-PROBATIONER     . 

13 

X 

STAFF-NURSE:    NEW  STYLE 

14 

XI 

CLINICAL         .... 

15 

XII 

ETCHING          .... 

17 

XIII 

CASUALTY      .... 

19 

XIV 

AVE,   C^SAR  !          .          .          . 

20 

XV 

'THE  CHIEF' 

21 

XVI 

HOUSE-SURGEON     . 

22 

XVII 

INTERLUDE    .... 

23 

XVIII 

CHILDREN  :  PRIVATE  WARD 

25 

XIX 

SCRUBBER         .... 

26 

64291  4 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

XX 

VISITOR         ....        27 

XXI 

ROMANCE     . 

.      28 

XXII 

PASTORAL  . 

.      29 

'   XXIII 

MUSIC  . 

.      31 

XXIV 

SUICIDE 

33 

XXV 

APPARITION 

34 

XXVI 

ANTEROTICS 

35 

XXVII 

NOCTURN      . 

36 

XXVIII 

DISCHARGED 

37 

ENVOY 

. 

39 

VI 


IN  HOSPITAL 


1873-1875 


On  ne  saurait  dire  a  quel  point 
un  homme,  seul  dans  son  lit  et 
malade,  devient  personnel. 

BALZAC. 


ENTER  PATIENT 


HE  morning  mists  still  haunt  the  stony 
street ; 

The  northern  summer  air  is  shrill  and 
cold  ; 

And  lo,  the  Hospital,  grey,  quiet,  old, 
Where  Life  and  Death  like  friendly  chafferers  meet. 
Thro'  the  loud  spaciousness  and  draughty  gloom 
A  small,  strange  child — so  aged  yet  so  young  !  — 
Her  little  arm  besplinted  and  beslung, 
Precedes  me  gravely  to  the  waiting-room. 
I  limp  behind,  my  confidence  all  gone. 
The  grey-haired  soldier-porter  waves  me  on, 
And  on  I  crawl,  and  still  my  spirits  fail  : 
A  tragic  meanness  seems  so  to  environ 
These  corridors  and  stairs  of  stone  and  iron, 
Cold,  naked,  clean  —  half-workhouse  and  half-jail. 


A 


II 

WAITING 

SQUARE,  squat  room  (a  cellar  on  pro- 
motion), 

Drab  to  the  soul,  drab  to  the  yery  daylight; 
Plasters  astray  in  unnatural-looking  tinware; 
Scissors  and  lint  and  apothecary's  jars. 


Here,  on  a  bench  a  skeleton  would  writhe  from, 
Angry  and  sore,  I  wait  to  be  admitted  : 
Wait  till  my  heart  is  lead  upon  my  stomach, 
While  at  their  ease  two  dressers  do  their  chores. 

One  has  a  probe  —  it  feels  to  me  a  crowbar. 
A  small  boy  sniffs  and  shudders  after  bluestone. 
A  poor  old  tramp  explains  his  poor  old  ulcers. 
Life  is  (I  think)  a  blunder  and  a  shame. 


Ill 

INTERIOR 

HE  gaunt  brown  walls 
A       Look  infinite  in  their  decent  meanness. 
There  is  nothing  of  home  in  the  noisy  kettle, 
The  fulsome  fire. 

The  atmosphere 
Suggests  the  trail  of  a  ghostly  druggist. 
Dressings  and  lint  on  the  long,  lean  table  — 

Whom  are  they  for? 

The  patients  yawn, 
Or  lie  as  in  training  for  shroud  and  coffin. 
A  nurse  in  the  corridor  scolds  and  wrangles. 

It  's  grim  and  strange. 

Far  footfalls  clank. 
The  bad  burn  waits  with  his  head  unbandaged. 
My  neighbour  chokes  in  the  clutch  of  chloral  . 

O,  a  gruesome  world  ! 


IV 

BEFORE 

T3EHOLD  me  waiting  —  waiting  for  the  knife. 

*-*     A  little  while,  and  at  a  leap  I  storm 

The  thick,  sweet  mystery  of  chloroform, 

The  drunken  dark,  the  little  death-in-life. 

The  gods  are  good  to  me :  I  have  no  wife, 

No  innocent  child,  to  think  of  as  I  near 

The  fateful  minute ;  nothing  ail-too  dear 

Unmans  me  for  my  bout  of  passive  strife. 

Yet  am  I  tremulous  and  a  trifle  sick, 

And,  face  to  face  with  chance,  I  shrink  a  little  : 

My  hopes  are  strong,  my  will  is  something  weak. 

Here  comes  the  basket?    Thank  you.    I  am  ready. 

But,  gentlemen  my  porters,  life  is  brittle  : 

You  carry  Caesar  and  his  fortunes  —  steady  ! 


Y 


V 

OPERATION 

OU  are  carried  in  a  basket, 

Like  a  carcase  from  the  shambles, 
To  the  theatre,  a  cockpit 
Where  they  stretch  you  on  a  table. 


Then  they  bid  you  close  your  eyelids, 
And  they  mask  you  with  a  napkin, 
And  the  anaesthetic  reaches 
Hot  and  subtle  through  your  being. 

And  you  gasp  and  reel  and  shudder 
In  a  rushing,  swaying  rapture, 
While  the  voices  at  your  elbow 
Fade — receding — fainter — farther. 

Lights  about  you  shower  and  tumble, 
And  your  blood  seems  crystallising  — 
Edged  and  vibrant,  yet  within  you 
Racked  and  hurried  back  and  forward. 

Then  the  lights  grow  fast  and  furious, 
And  you  hear  a  noise  of  waters, 
And  you  wrestle,  blind  and  dizzy, 
In  an  agony  of  effort, 


Till  a  sudden  lull  accepts  you, 

And  you  sound  an  utter  darkness  .  . 
And  awaken  .  .  .  with  a  struggle  . 
On  a  hushed,  attentive  audience. 


8 


VI 

AFTER 

IKE  as  a  flamelet  blanketed  in  smoke, 
-*— '     So  through  the  anaesthetic  shows  my  life; 
So  flashes  and  so  fades  my  thought,  at  strife 
With  the  strong  stupor  that  I  heave  and  choke 
And  sicken  at,  it  is  so  foully  sweet. 
Faces  look  strange  from  space  —  and  disappear. 
Far  voices,  sudden  loud,  offend  my  ear  — 
And  hush  as  sudden.     Then  my  senses  fleet : 
All  were  a  blank,  save  for  this  dull,  new  pain 
That  grinds  my  leg  and  foot ;  and  brokenly 
Time  and  the  place  glimpse  on  to  me  again ; 
And,  unsurprised,  out  of  uncertainty, 
I  awake  —  relapsing  —  somewhat  faint  and  fain, 
To  an  immense,  complacent  dreamery. 


VII 

VIGIL 

IVED  on  one's  back, 
*~^     In  the  long  hours  of  repose, 
Life  is  a  practical  nightmare  — 
Hideous  asleep  or  awake. 

Shoulders  and  loins 

Ache ! 

Ache,  and  the  mattress, 
Run  into  boulders  and  hummocks, 
Glows  like  a  kiln,  while  the  bedclothes 
Tumbling,  importunate,  daft  — 
Ramble  and  roll,  and  the  gas, 
Screwed  to  its  lowermost, 
An  inevitable  atom  of  light, 
Haunts,  and  a  stertorous  sleeper 
Snores  me  to  hate  and  despair. 

All  the  old  time 
Surges  malignant  before  me ; 
Old  voices,  old  kisses,  old  songs 
Blossom  derisive  about  me; 
While  the  new  days 

10 


Pass  me  in  endless  procession  : 

A  pageant  of  shadows 

Silently,  leeringly  wending 

On  .  .   .  and  still  on  .  .  .  still  on  ! 

Far  in  the  stillness  a  cat 

Languishes  loudly.     A  cinder 

Falls,  and  the  shadows 

Lurch  to  the  leap  of  the  flame.  The  next  man 
to  me 

Turns  with  a  moan ;  and  the  snorer, 

The  drug  like  a  rope  at  his  throat, 

Gasps,  gurgles,  snorts  himself  free,  as  the  night- 
nurse, 

Noiseless  and  strange, 

Her  bull's  eye  half-lanterned  in  apron 

(Whispering  me,  'Are  ye  no'  sleepin'  yet?'), 

Passes,  list-slippered  and  peering, 

Round  .  .  .  and  is  gone. 

Sleep  comes  at  last  — 

i 

Sleep  full  of  dreams  and  misgivings  — 

Broken  with  brutal  and  sordid 

Voices  and  sounds 

That  impose  on  me,  ere  I  can  wake  to  it, 

The  unnatural,  intolerable  day. 


11 


VIII 

STAFF-NURSE:  OLD  STYLE 

AHE  greater  masters  of  the  commonplace, 

*      Rembrandt  and  good  Sir  Walter  — 

only  these 
Could  paint  her  all  to  you  :  experienced  ease 
And  antique  liveliness  and  ponderous  grace ; 
The  sweet  old  roses  of  her  sunken  face ; 
The  depth  and  malice  of  her  sly,  grey  eyes ; 
The  broad  Scots  tongue  that  flatters,  scolds,  defies ; 
The  thick  Scots  wit  that  fells  you  like  a  mace. 
These  thirty  years  has  she  been  nursing  here, 
Some  of  them  under  SYME,  her  hero  still. 
Much  is  she  worth,  and  even  more  is  made  of  her. 
Patients  and  students  hold  her  very  dear. 
The  doctors  love  her,  tease  her,  use  her  skill. 
They  say  'The  Chief '  himself  is  half-afraid  of  her. 


12 


IX 

LADY-PROBATIONER 

COME  three,  or  five,  or  seven,  and  thirty  years  ; 

^     A  Roman  nose;  a  dimpling  double-chin; 

Dark  eyes  and  shy  that,  ignorant  of  sin, 

Are  yet  acquainted,  it  would  seem,  with  tears ; 

A  comely  shape ;  a  slim,  high-coloured  hand, 

Graced,  rather  oddly,  with  a  signet  ring; 

A  bashful  air,  becoming  everything ; 

A  well-bred  silence  always  at  command. 

Her  plain  print  gown,  prim  cap,  and  bright  steel  chain 

Look  out  of  place  on  her,  and  I  remain 

Absorbed  in  her,  as  in  a  pleasant  mystery. 

Quick,  skilful,  quiet,  soft  in  speech  and  touch  .  .  . 

1  Do  you  like  nursing? '     '  Yes,  Sir,  very  much.' 

Somehow,  I  rather  think  she  has  a  history. 


13 


X 

STAFF-NURSE:  NEW  STYLE 

T3LUE-EYED  and  bright  of  face  but  waning  fast 

^*     Into  the  sere  of  virginal  decay, 

I  view  her  as  she  enters,  day  by  day, 

As  a  sweet  sunset  almost  overpast. 

Kindly  and  calm,  patrician  to  the  last, 

Superbly  falls  her  gown  of  sober  grey, 

And  on  her  chignon's  elegant  array 

The  plainest  cap  is  somehow  touched  with  caste. 

She  talks  BEETHOVEN  ;  frowns  disapprobation 

At  BALZAC'S  name,  sighs  it  at  '  poor  GEORGE 

Sand's'; 

Knows  that  she  has  exceeding  pretty  hands; 
Speaks  Latin  with  a  right  accentuation ; 
And  gives  at  need  (as  one  who  understands) 
Draught,  counsel,  diagnosis,  exhortation. 


14 


XI 

CLINICAL 

TJ1ST?  .  .  . 

Through  the  corridor's  echoes 
Louder  and  nearer 
Comes  a  great  shuffling  of  feet. 
Quick,  every  one  of  you, 
Straighten  your  quilts,  and  be  decent ! 
Here  's  the  Professor. 

In  he  comes  first 

With  the  bright  look  we  know, 

From  the  broad,  white  brows  the  kind  eyes 

Soothing  yet  nerving  you.     Here  at  his  elbow, 

White-capped,  white-aproned,  the  Nurse, 

Towel  on  arm  and  her  inkstand 

Fretful  with  quills. 

Here  in  the  ruck,  anyhow, 

Surging  along, 

Louts,  duffers,  exquisites,  students,  and  prigs  — 

Whiskers  and  foreheads,  scarf-pins  and  spectacles- 

Hustles  the  Class  !     And  they  ring  themselves 

Round  the  first  bed,  where  the  Chief 

(His  dressers  and  clerks  at  attention), 

Bends  in  inspection  already. 

15 


So  shows  the  ring 

Seen  from  behind  round  a  conjurer 

Doing  his  pitch  in  the  street. 

High  shoulders,  low  shoulders,  broad  shoulders, 

narrow  ones, 
Round,  square,  and  angular,  serry  and  shove ; 
While  from  within  a  voice, 
Gravely  and  weightily  fluent, 
Sounds  ;  and  then  ceases  ;  and  suddenly 
(Look  at  the  stress  of  the  shoulders  ! ) 
Out  of  a  quiver  of  silence, 
Over  the  hiss  of  the  spray, 
Comes  a  low  cry,  and  the  sound 
Of  breath  quick  intaken  through  teeth 
Clenched  in  resolve.     And  the  Master 
Breaks  from  the  crowd,  and  goes, 
Wiping  his  hands, 
To  the  next  bed,  with  his  pupils 
Flocking  and  whispering  behind  him. 

Now  one  can  see. 

Case  Number  One 

Sits  (rather  pale)  with  his  bedclothes 

Stripped  up,  and  showing  his  foot 

(Alas  for  God's  Image  ! ) 

Swaddled  in  wet,  white  lint 

Brilliantly  hideous  with  red. 


16 


XII 

ETCHING 

~^WO  and  thirty  is  the  ploughman. 
-*-        He's  a  man  of  gallant  inches, 
And  his  hair  is  close  and  curly, 

And  his  beard  ; 
But  his  face  is  wan  and  sunken, 
And  his  eyes  are  large  and  brilliant, 
And  his  shoulder-blades  are  sharp, 
And  his  knees. 

He  is  weak  of  wits,  religious, 
Full  of  sentiment  and  yearning, 
Gentle,  faded  —  with  a  cough 

And  a  snore. 
When  his  wife  (who  was  a  widow, 
And  is  many  years  his  elder) 
Fails  to  write,  and  that  is  always, 

He  desponds. 

Let  his  melancholy  wander, 
And  he  '11  tell  you  pretty  stories 
Of  the  women  that  have  wooed  him 
Long  ago ; 

17 


Or  he  '11  sing  of  bonnie  lasses 
Keeping  sheep  among  the  heather, 
With  a  crackling,  hackling  click 
In  his  voice. 


18 


A 


XIII 

CASUALTY 

S  with  varnish  red  and  glistening 

Dripped  his  hair ;   his  feet  looked  rigid  ; 
Raised,  he  settled  stiffly  sideways  : 
You  could  see  his  hurts  were  spinal. 


He  had  fallen  from  an  engine, 

And  been  dragged  along  the  metals. 
It  was  hopeless,  and  they  knew  it ; 
So  they  covered  him,  and  left  him. 

As  he  lay,  by  fits  half  sentient, 
Inarticulately  moaning, 
With  his  stockinged  soles  protruded 
Stark  and  awkward  from  the  blankets, 

To  his  bed  there  came  a  woman, 
Stood  and  looked  and  sighed  a  little, 
And  departed  without  speaking, 
As  himself  a  few  hours  after. 

I  was  told  it  was  his  sweetheart. 
They  were  on  the  eve  of  marriage. 
She  was  quiet  as  a  statue, 
But  her  lip  was  grey  and  writhen. 


19 


XIV 
AVE,  CAESAR! 

FROM  the  winter's  grey  despair, 
From  the  summer's  golden  languor, 
Death,  the  lover  of  Life, 
Frees  us  for  ever. 

Inevitable,  silent,  unseen, 

Everywhere  always, 

Shadow  by  night  and  as  light  in  the  day, 

Signs  she  at  last  to  her  chosen ; 

And,  as  she  waves  them  forth, 

Sorrow  and  Joy 

Lay  by  their  looks  and  their  voices, 

Set  down  their  hopes,  and  are  made 

One  in  the  dim  Forever. 

Into  the  winter's  grey  delight, 
Into  the  summer's  golden  dream, 
Holy  and  high  and  impartial, 
Death,  the  mother  of  Life, 
Mingles  all  men  for  ever. 


20 


XV 

'THE  CHIEF' 

T  |  TS  brow  spreads  large  and  placid,  and  his  eye 

A  A    Is  deep  and  bright,  with  steady  looks  that  still. 

Soft  lines  of  tranquil  thought  his  face  fulfill — 

His  face  at  once  benign  and  proud  and  shy. 

If  envy  scout,  if  ignorance  deny, 

His  faultless  patience,  his  unyielding  will, 

Beautiful  gentleness  and  splendid  skill, 

Innumerable  gratitudes  reply. 

His  wise,  rare  smile  is  sweet  with  certainties, 

And  seems  in  all  his  patients  to  compel 

Such  love  and  faith  as  failure  cannot  quell. 

We  hold  him  for  another  Herakles, 

Battling  with  custom,  prejudice,  disease, 

As  once  the  son  of  Zeus  with  Death  and  Hell. 


21 


XVI 

HOUSE-SURGEON 

T^  XCEEDING  tall,  but  built  so  well  his  height 
-*->     Half-disappears  in  flow  of  chest  and  limb ; 
Moustache  and  whisker  trooper-like  in  trim  ; 
Frank-faced,  frank-eyed,  frank-hearted  ;  always  bright 
And  always  punctual  —  morning,  noon,  and  night; 
Bland  as  a  Jesuit,  sober  as  a  hymn  ; 
Humorous,  and  yet  without  a  touch  of  whim  ; 
Gentle  and  amiable,  yet  full  of  fight. 
His  piety,  though  fresh  and  true  in  strain, 
Has  not  yet  whitewashed  up  his  common  mood 
To  the  dead  blank  of  his  particular  Schism. 
Sweet,  unaggressive,  tolerant,  most  humane, 
Wild  artists  like  his  kindly  elderhood, 
And  cultivate  his  mild  Philistinism. 


22 


XVII 

INTERLUDE 

f~\     THE  fun,  the  fun  and  frolic 

^S  }     That  The  Wind  that  Shakes  the  Barley 

Scatters  through  a  penny-whistle 

Tickled  with  artistic  fingers  ! 

Kate  the  scrubber  (forty  summers, 
Stout  but  sportive)  treads  a  measure, 
Grinning,  in  herself  a  ballet, 
Fixed  as  fate  upon  her  audience. 

Stumps  are  shaking,  crutch-supported  ; 
Splinted  fingers  tap  the  rhythm  ; 
And  a  head  all  helmed  with  plasters 
Wags  a  measured  approbation. 

Of  their  mattress-life  oblivious, 

All  the  patients,  brisk  and  cheerful, 
Are  encouraging  the  dancer, 
And  applauding  the  musician. 

Dim  the  gas-lights  in  the  output 
Of  so  many  ardent  smokers, 
Full  of  shadow  lurch  the  corners, 
And  the  doctor  peeps  and  passes. 

23 


There  are,  maybe,  some  suspicions 
Of  an  alcoholic  presence  .  .  . 
'Tak'  a  sup  of  this,  my  wumman  ! '  .  .  . 
New  Year  comes  but  once  a  twelvemonth. 


24 


XVIII 
CHILDREN:  PRIVATE  WARD 

T_TERE  in  this  dim,  dull,  double-bedded  room, 

A  -*•     I  play  the  father  to  a  brace  of  boys, 
Ailing  but  apt  for  every  sort  of  noise, 

Bedfast  but  brilliant  yet  with  health  and  bloom. 

Roden,  the  Irishman,  is  'sieven  past,' 

Blue-eyed,  snub-nosed,  chubby,  and  fair  of  face. 

Willie's  but  six,  and  seems  to  like  the  place, 

A  cheerful  little  collier  to  the  last. 

They  eat,  and  laugh,  and  sing,  and  fight,  all  day ; 

All  night  they  sleep  like  dormice.     See  them  play 

At  Operations  :  —  Roden,  the  Professor, 

Saws,  lectures,  takes  the  artery  up,  and  ties ; 

Willie,  self-chloroformed,  with  half-shut  eyes, 

Holding  the  limb  and  moaning  —  Case  and  Dresser. 


25 


XIX 

SCRUBBER 

CHE'S  tall  and  gaunt,  and  in  her  hard,  sad  face 
^     With  flashes  of  the  old  fun's  animation 
There  lowers  the  fixed  and  peevish  resignation 
Bred  of  a  past  where  troubles  came  apace. 
She  tells  me  that  her  husband,  ere  he  died, 
Saw  seven  of  their  children  pass  away, 
And  never  knew  the  little  lass  at  play 
Out  on  the  green,  in  whom  he  's  deified. 
Her  kin  dispersed,  her  friends  forgot  and  gone, 
All  simple  faith  her  honest  Irish  mind, 
Scolding  her  spoiled  young  saint,  she  labours  on : 
Telling  her  dreams,  taking  her  patients'  part, 
Trailing  her  coat  sometimes  :  and  you  shall  find 
No  rougher,  quainter  speech,  nor  kinder  heart. 


26 


XX 

VISITOR 

T  TFR  little  face  is  like  a  walnut  shell 

A  A    With  wrinkling  lines ;  her  soft,  white  hair  adorns 

Her  withered  brows  in  quaint,  straight  curls,  like  horns ; 

And  all  about  her  clings  an  old,  sweet  smell. 

Prim  is  her  gown  and  quakerlike  her  shawl. 

Well  might  her  bonnets  have  been  born  on  her. 

Can  you  conceive  a  Fairy  Godmother 

The  subject  of  a  strong  religious  call  ? 

In  snow  or  shine,  from  bed  to  bed  she  runs, 

All  twinkling  smiles  and  texts  and  pious  tales, 

Her  mittened  hands,  that  ever  give  or  pray, 

Bearing  a  sheaf  of  tracts,  a  bag  of  buns  : 

A  wee  old  maid  that  sweeps  the  Bridegroom's  way, 

Strong  in  a  cheerful  trust  that  never  fails. 


27 


XXI 

ROMANCE 

ALK  of  pluck  ! '  pursued  the  Sailor, 
Set  at  euchre  on  his  elbow, 
'  I  was  on  the  wharf  at  Charleston, 
Just  ashore  from  off  the  runner. 


'T 


'It  was  grey  and  dirty  weather, 
And  I  heard  a  drum  go  rolling, 
Rub-a-dubbing  in  the  distance 
Awful  dour-like  and  defiant. 

'  In  and  out  among  the  cotton, 

Mud,  and  chains,  and  stores,  and  anchors, 
Tramped  a  squad  of  battered  scarecrows  — 
Poor  old  Dixie's  bottom  dollar  ! 

'  Some  had  shoes,  but  all  had  rifles, 
Them  that  wasn't  bald  was  beardless, 
And  the  drum  was  rolling  Dixie, 
And  they  stepped  to  it  like  men,  sir ! 

'  Rags  and  tatters,  belts  and  bayonets, 
On  they  swung,  the  drum  a-rolling, 
Mum  and  sour.     It  looked  like  fighting, 
And  they  meant  it  too,  by  thunder ! ' 


28 


XXII 

PASTORAL 

JT'S  the  Spring. 

"*-     Earth  has  conceived,  and  her  bosom, 

Teeming  with  summer,  is  glad. 

Vistas  of  change  and  adventure, 

Thro'  the  green  land 

The  grey  roads  go  beckoning  and  winding, 

Peopled  with  wains,  and  melodious 

With  harness-bells  jangling : 

Jangling  and  twangling  rough  rhythms 

To  the  slow  march  of  the  stately,  great  horses 

Whistled  and  shouted  along. 

White  fleets  of  cloud, 

Argosies  heavy  with  fruitfulness, 

Sail  the  blue  peacefully.     Green  flame  the  hedgerows. 

Blackbirds  are  bugling,  and  white  in  wet  winds 

Sway  the  tall  poplars. 

Pageants  of  colour  and  fragrance, 

Pass  the  sweet  meadows,  and  viewless 

Walks  the  mild  spirit  of  May, 

Visibly  blessing  the  world. 

29 


O,  the  brilliance  of  blossoming  orchards ! 

O,  the  savour  and  thrill  of  the  woods, 

When  their  leafage  is  stirred 

By  the  flight  of  the  Angel  of  Rain ! 

Loud  lows  the  steer ;  in  the  fallows 

Rooks  are  alert ;  and  the  brooks 

Gurgle  and  tinkle  and  trill.    Thro'  the  gloamings, 

Under  the  rare,  shy  stars, 

Boy  and  girl  wander, 

Dreaming  in  darkness  and  dew. 

It 's  the  Spring. 

A  sprightliness  feeble  and  squalid 
Wakes  in  the  ward,  and  I  sicken, 
Impotent,  winter  at  heart. 


30 


XXIII 

MUSIC 

~\OWN  the  quiet  eve, 
*^*      Thro'  my  window  with  the  sunset 
Pipes  to  me  a  distant  organ 
Foolish  ditties ; 

And,  as  when  you  change 
Pictures  in  a  magic  lantern, 
Books,  beds,  bottles,  floor,  and  ceiling 
Fade  and  vanish, 

And  I  'm  well  once  more.  .  .  . 
August  flares  adust  and  torrid, 
But  my  heart  is  full  of  April 
Sap  and  sweetness. 

In  the  quiet  eve 

I  am  loitering,  longing,  dreaming  .  .   . 
Dreaming,  and  a  distant  organ 
Pipes  me  ditties. 

I  can  see  the  shop, 
I  can  smell  the  sprinkled  pavement, 
Where  she  serves  —  her  chestnut  chignon 
Thrills  my  senses  ! 

31 


O,  the  sight  and  scent, 
Wistful  eve  and  perfumed  pavement ! 
In  the  distance  pipes  and  organ  .  .  . 
The  sensation 

Comes  to  me  anew, 

And  my  spirit  for  a  moment 

Thro'  the  music  breathes  the  blessed 

Airs  of  London. 


32 


XXIV 

SUICIDE 

OTARING  corpselike  at  the  ceiling, 
^     See  his  harsh,  unrazored  features, 
Ghastly  brown  against  the  pillow, 
And  his  throat  —  so  strangely  bandaged  ! 

Lack  of  work  and  lack  of  victuals, 
A  debauch  of  smuggled  whisky, 
And  his  children  in  the  workhouse 
Made  the  world  so  black  a  riddle 

That  he  plunged  for  a  solution ; 

And,  although  his  knife  was  edgeless, 

He  was  sinking  fast  towards  one, 

When  they  came,  and  found,  and  saved  him. 

Stupid  now  with  shame  and  sorrow, 
In  the  night  I  hear  him  sobbing. 
But  sometimes  he  talks  a  little. 
He  has  told  me  all  his  troubles. 

In  his  broad  face,  tanned  and  bloodless, 
White  and  wild  his  eyeballs  glisten ; 
And  his  smile,  occult  and  tragic, 
Yet  so  slavish,  makes  you  shudder  ! 


33 


XXV 

APPARITION 

^"pHIN-LEGGED,  thin-chested,  slight  un- 

-*■        speakably, 
Neat-footed  and  weak-fingered:  in  his  face  — 
Lean,  large-boned,  curved  of  beak,  and  touched 

with  race, 
Bold-lipped,  rich-tinted,  mutable  as  the  sea, 
The  brown  eyes  radiant  with  vivacity  — 
There  shines  a  brilliant  and  romantic  grace, 
A  spirit  intense  and  rare,  with  trace  on  trace 
Of  passion  and  impudence  and  energy. 
Valiant  in  velvet,  light  in  ragged  luck, 
Most  vain,  most  generous,  sternly  critical, 
Buffoon  and  poet,  lover  and  sensualist : 
A  deal  of  Ariel,  just  a  streak  of  Puck, 
Much  Antony,  of  Hamlet  most  of  all, 
And  something  of  the  Shorter-Catechist. 


34 


XXVI 

ANTEROTICS 

AUGHS  the  happy  April  morn 
-*— '     Thro'  my  grimy,  little  window, 
And  a  shaft  of  sunshine  pushes 
Thro'  the  shadows  in  the  square. 

Dogs  are  tracing  thro'  the  grass, 

Crows  are  cawing  round  the  chimneys, 
In  and  out  among  the  washing 
Goes  the  West  at  hide-and-seek. 

Loud  and  cheerful  clangs  the  bell. 
Here  the  nurses  troop  to  breakfast. 
Handsome,  ugly,  all  are  women  .  .   . 
O,  the  Spring  —  the  Spring  —  the  Spring  ! 


35 


A 


XXVII 

NOCTURN 

T  the  barren  heart  of  midnight, 

When  the  shadow  shuts  and  opens 
As  the  loud  flames  pulse  and  flutter, 
I  can  hear  a  cistern  leaking. 


Dripping,  dropping,  in  a  rhythm, 
Rough,  unequal,  half-melodious, 
Like  the  measures  aped  from  nature 
In  the  infancy  of  music ; 

Like  the  buzzing  of  an  insect, 
Still,  irrational,  persistent  .  .  . 
I  must  listen,  listen,  listen 
In  a  passion  of  attention ; 

Till  it  taps  upon  my  heartstrings, 
And  my  very  life  goes  dripping, 
Dropping,  dripping,  drip-drip-dropping, 
In  the  drip-drop  of  the  cistern. 


36 


XXVIII 

DISCHARGED 

/^ARRY  me  out 

^-^      Into  the  wind  and  the  sunshine, 

Into  the  beautiful  world. 

O,  the  wonder,  the  spell  of  the  streets  ! 
The  stature  and  strength  of  the  horses, 
The  rustle  and  echo  of  footfalls, 
The  flat  roar  and  rattle  of  wheels  ! 
A  swift  tram  floats  huge  on  us  .  .  . 
It 's  a  dream  ? 

The  smell  of  the  mud  in  my  nostrils 
Blows  brave  —  like  a  breath  of  the  sea  ! 

As  of  old, 

Ambulant,  undulant  drapery, 

Vaguely  and  strangely  provocative, 

Flutters  and  beckons.     O,  yonder  — 

Is  it? — the  gleam  of  a  stocking  ! 

Sudden,  a  spire 

Wedged  in  the  mist !     O,  the  houses, 

The  long  lines  of  lofty,  grey  houses, 

Cross-hatched  with  shadow  and  light ! 

These  are  the  streets.  .  .  . 


37 


Each  is  an  avenue  leading 
Whither  I  will  ! 

Free  .  .  .   ! 

Dizzy,  hysterical,  faint, 

I  sit,  and  the  carriage  rolls  on  with  me 

Into  the  wonderful  world. 

The  Old  Infirmary,  Edinburgh,  1873-75. 


38 


ENVOY 

TO   CHARLES   BAXTER 

DO  you  remember 
That  afternoon  —  that  Sunday  afternoon  !  — 
When,  as  the  kirks  were  ringing  in, 
And  the  grey  city  teemed 
With  Sabbath  feelings  and  aspects, 

Lewis  —  our  Lewis  then, 

Now  the  whole  world's  —  and  you, 

Young,  yet  in  shape  most  like  an  elder,  came, 

Laden  with  BALZACS 

(Big,  yellow  books,  quite  impudently  French), 

The  first  of  many  times 

To  that  transformed  back-kitchen  where  I  lay 

So  long,  so  many  centuries  — 

Or  years  is  it !  —  ago  ? 

Dear  CHARLES,  since  then 

We  have  been  friends,  LEWIS  and  you  and  I, 

(How  good  it  sounds,  'LEWIS  and  you  and  I  ! ') : 

Such  friends,  I  like  to  think, 

That  in  us  three,  LEWIS  and  me  and  you, 

Is  something  of  that  gallant  dream 

Which  old  DUMAS  —  the  generous,  the  humane, 

39 


The  seven-and-seventy  times  to  be  forgiven  !  — 
Dreamed  for  a  blessing  to  the  race, 
The  immortal  Musketeers. 

Our  ATHOS  rests  —  the  wise,  the  kind, 

The  liberal  and  august,  his  fault  atoned, 

Rests  in  the  crowded  yard 

There  at  the  west  of  Princes  Street.     We  three 

You,  I,  and  LEWIS  !  —  still  afoot, 

Are  still  together,  and  our  lives, 

In  chime  so  long,  may  keep 

(God  bless  the  thought !) 

Unjangled  till  the  end. 

W.  E.  H. 
CHISWICK,  March  1888. 


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